Fragile
by circleofstars
Summary: Another Devil's Trap tag! Just a short scene, after the screen went blank at the end of the episode. Please, donate 5 minutes of your life to my story! 6 minutes, even, because then you could review... hint hint


_I'm reposting this because there were some small mistakes in it which were annoying me. If you haven't read it before, please give it a try. I'm proud of this little one-shot._

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_There are already hundreds of Devil's Trap stories, I know, I know. One more won't do any harm, though, right? Just a short scene set immediately after the screen goes black._

_I don't own Supernatural, yada yada yada…_

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He wakes up. Not like waking out of sleep, when you slowly become aware of yourself, surfacing at a leisurely pace from a mist of blissful vagueness. Not like that, but all at once- he was aware of nothing at all, just now- he wasn't aware of sleeping, and he wasn't aware that he was waking up. He wasn't aware that he _was, _that he existed, even. In a space between seconds, he has come from complete oblivion to this state of heightened awareness, because now everything is painfully clear: dark shapes are glinting metallically through the sharp space, the very air is prickling every inch of his skin, and the silence is ringing loudly with the absence of sound. As if it were full of sound just now, screeching, resounding screams of protest, howled out into the night by the tortured metal.

There's something crushed on the front of the truck.

He remembers a time when he hit a bird – stupid thing, it was flying so low, not looking where it was going, and he couldn't have avoided it without taking out a motorcyclist. Fair trade. It had worried him, though – he didn't want to be a killer. He liked birds, in an indifferent sort of way. He didn't take an active interest in them, but he was conscious that they added something essential to the world, something without which, living would be less worthwhile. No singing, tuneless but sweet, in the early morning. Silence, real silence, was uncomfortable. Like now.

The bird looked so fragile, when he had disposed of it, later on. They seemed robust, flapping powerful wings, propelling themselves through empty air, not relying on anything but themselves to stay up. But then so easily crushed, mangled, unrecognisable, on his truck's remorseless hood. He remembered hearing that they had hollow bones. Really, it was just an illusion of strength, and it could only be maintained until something came along which was stronger, and harder. So easily crushed.

He fears that he has crushed something else, now, another life, but he can't bring himself to look. He must have fallen asleep at the wheel, and since when does he do that? He's a professional, driving all his life; you don't survive forty years driving a truck like this one if you can't be absolutely sure, without a doubt, that with enough caffeine you can stay awake at the wheel as long as you need: indefinitely, even. There's no other explanation for it, but still it's hard to believe. Guilt washes over him, in waves, hot, sickening; it turns his stomach. What has he killed?

He knows he needs to take responsibility for what he has done, whatever it is, but he wants to postpone the moment. How long can he legitimately sit here with his eyes closed? Maybe something needs his help; it is worse, what he's done, if he doesn't try to rectify it. He killed a bird once. But there are worse things he could have killed.

He forces his eyes to open, and that's a new experience, because usually he doesn't really think about opening his eyes, it just happens. The next wave of guilt is stronger, deeper, and he's afraid he'll drown in it. Gasping for breath, he leans forward, and looks down at the front of his truck.

There's something crushed on the front of the truck. Its body is twisted out of shape, shattered like the bird, a shell, bearing no resemblance to what it once was, what it should have been. It looks hard: difficult to bend, easy to shatter. Once a sleek, sturdy vehicle, and now smeared across the road, fragile before such power.

He is appalled that he has used his formidable machine to such devastating effect.

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He wakes up. Then immediately, wishes he hadn't. He finds himself sitting in a cocoon of distorted metal, scattered with shards of glass. Glistening and weirdly beautiful, points of light, glowing in the night. Hope in the darkness, light among the tortured shapes, perverted so far from their natural state that it is impossible to see how they should be. His eyes are unfocused, and he's concentrating on what's in front of him because the alternative is unthinkable.

Unthinkable, but ultimately, unavoidable. The thought comes to him, suddenly, that he should be dead. Has the car taken all of the impact, leaving its passengers unscathed? Was this really a car, once? Numbness recedes, and he realises that he hurts, but it is a few minutes before he can work out where, and why.

Head, splitting, it seems, with a deafening cacophony of pain. Leg, throbbing dully where it is pierced with a bullet wound, but shrieking with more urgency lower down, where it is at an unnatural angle, between the collapsed door and the seat. He doesn't try to move it, because he doesn't want to know if it's broken. He fears the worst.

Pain doesn't recede, but he can get used to it. After a while, he can think through the pain, with at least a small degree of clarity. He's not dead, and that is a blessing. And a miracle.

Then a thought blasts through the veil of pain, stronger, brighter than any other, and immediately it has his full attention. _Sam. Dean. _

He doesn't want to look, but he has to know. He doesn't want to move, because, damn, it's going to hurt. He holds his head as level as he can, and hopes that the world won't tilt sideways if he turns it, slowly, slowly, round to look into the driver's seat.

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He wakes up, but it takes considerable effort. The crash comes back to him immediately. He remembers how sudden it was, the way it cut him off mid-sentence, the way it came, literally, out of nowhere. The way the sound was sharp and loud, slicing painfully into his eardrums.

His chest aches, and his head is killing him, but then, he's had a headache all night, so maybe there isn't any new damage. He raises a tentative hand to touch his face, and it's wet; his fingers are stained with the touch of scarlet. He blinks, hard, trying to stabilise the world which is swaying in front of him. It stops spinning, but it still doesn't look very secure: it might slip away at any moment, like a dream, sinking silently out of the mind as it wakes.

The seatbelt has left a bruise across his chest, he can feel it, and it strikes him as ironic that he has been injured by a seatbelt. But then, he thinks, it could have been much, much worse. His head is bleeding, and it hurts, but his brain seems to be working reasonably well, under the circumstances, so it can't be that bad, he reasons. He was lucky.

He knows turning round will make his head swim, but he needs to do it anyway. He meets his father's eyes, with great relief.

'You ok?' Sam asks, his voice rasping painfully in his parched throat. He screws up his eyes again, wishing that his vision could just stay level.

'Yeah…' John replies, unsure whether it's the truth or not: it depends on your definition of ok. _Not dying, anyway…_

Sam doesn't want to ask the next question, but he needs to know the answer. He's afraid it will be the wrong answer, and he doesn't know what will happen if it is: he can't imagine how life will be after that. But still, he needs to know, and right now, he feels like he can't take another breath until the question has been asked.

He forms the word, but no sound comes out. John understands, though, because the same word is on his own lips. _Dean._

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He tries to wake up, but it's a struggle. He's caught in a world between dreaming and waking. He knows he's asleep, and his mind is conscious: he knows what just happened, and where he should be, and he knows, beyond doubt, that he needs to wake up now. But he's not connected to his senses. He should be able to open his eyes and see the interior of his car, he should be able to hear Sam and Dad bickering in the front seats, and he should be able to feel, and smell, and taste as he could a few short minutes ago. Feel pain, overwhelming his tattered chest. Taste blood. Smell blood.

He's relieved, in some ways. He's cut off from his body, somehow, and the torture that it is still enduring, somewhere. And he's relieved because he's worried that if he could see, he would see the broken shell of his beautiful car, collapsing around them. If he could hear, he might hear resounding silence, not broken even by the breathing of the two men in the front seats.

He's torn, because although he doesn't want to know that they're dead, he needs to know if they're alive. And there's a part of him, deeply buried, that wonders about his own condition. He knows it isn't good, but now he can't even connect with his own body. He wonders what it would feel like to be dead.

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They turn together, mirroring each other's movements, looking through the gap between the seats. They both have to turn slowly, because the collision has left their heads spinning. John, his leg still stuck against the door, manages with great effort to turn far enough to see Dean's face, and it's not good. There's blood on his cheek, and blood in the cracks in the window, spreading like a spider web from the point where his head must have hit it. He can't see his son's chest, because his position won't allow him to turn any further, but the anguished whimper that comes involuntarily from Sam's throat in response tells him everything he needs to know. Not good, not good at all. He holds his breath, and strains his ears, reaching out into the silence in search of the sound of Dean breathing.

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Sam wriggles round in his seat, painfully, because his body is bruised, and beyond exhaustion. Any second, everything could tilt sideways. He thinks he might pass out, and hopes he can transcend that need by sheer will power.

He reaches out slowly, trying not to jostle his fragile head, but eventually he can touch his brother's cool skin, which is slick with blood under his searching fingers. It feels smooth, firm yet breakable. Does it feel alive? He's not sure. His fingers flutter frantically across Dean's flesh, seeking a sign of life. Panic builds in him, slowly at first, increasing exponentially until his throat is burning with it, and his whole body is trembling. 'No, no…' he mutters, unaware that he is doing so. But his denial changes nothing, his search still yields no results.

So, what happens now? What kind of life exists beyond this point? It's a turning point, undoubtedly, but he has no clue to tell him how to live on. 'Jesus,' he mutters. 'Jesus.'

Perhaps it's best to stay in the moment, at a time like this: there's no point dwelling on a future that may not exist at all.

Then, suddenly, something's there that wasn't before. Throbbing, slowly, weakly, but throbbing beneath his touch, unmistakeably. It's all right. It's a fragile future, but, for the moment, it's still there.

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Dean realises that he can choose, and when he does it is easy to make the decision. Here, there is no pain, no fear. Here, it might be possible to exist indefinitely without having to face the deadly realities which are waiting, back where his body is. But there… there, there's Sam.

Something in him knows he _can_ wake up, but it's not easy. He forces himself to think about his body, how it should feel. Forces himself back into it.

_Fuck, _it hurts.

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Sam studies his brother's face, leaving his fingers pressed against the pulse, frightened of losing it again and never being able to find it. Dean's eyelids flicker under his scrutiny.

'Dean,' he croaks, grinning stupidly. He hears his father sigh in relief as Dean opens his eyes a crack. Green eyes, diluted with pain, staring out from between tensed eyelids. Struggling to focus, trying to fix Sam in a stare. Dean opens his mouth to speak, but it's not happening; he needs every breath, just to live. To keep living.

'It will be alright, Dean,' Sam assures him. It has to be.

A shadow falls over them, and somebody leans down to peer in through the shattered driver's window. He's rocking back and forth with shock and guilt, his blunt fingers clutching at the twisted frame of the car as if he feels the need to hold onto something for his own comfort.

'Christ, I'm so sorry. Fuck, I don't believe it… I must have fallen asleep, I'm so sorry…' He sounds sorry, as well as confused and terrified. He can't stop swearing and apologising by turns.

Sam's impulse is to hate him. He did this. But some reasonable part of him knows that this man is not responsible; he wasn't asleep, and the control of the truck was completely beyond his power. He can't be blamed. Sam's anger dissolves into pity.

'I'll call for help…' the man offers, pulling out a cell with shaking hands. Sam nods gratefully, still holding his fingers against Dean's neck. Holding on, because in his dizzy state, he feels that it's essential to maintain the connection, that his finger on Dean's pulse is the only thing that's sustaining this fragile reality.

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_Review, please. I know it doesn't really go anywhere, it's just a bit of angst! I'd love your opinions!_


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